


Sunday Dinner

by Jael



Series: Time After Time [4]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Happy Prompts, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7100275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jael/pseuds/Jael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After you've lived (and "died," and lived again) as a legend, sometimes "normal" is the most unnerving thing of all. For the happy prompts challenge at lot-fans.livejournal.com/. Post-"If I Never."  As always, CaptainCanary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Set in my post-"If I Never" 'verse. That story is recommended reading first. Thanks again to LarielRomeniel for reading.

They've been back in Central City for about two weeks, still in the so-called honeymoon/adjustment stage of living together that comes when one of a pair is a resurrected-assassin-turned-vigilante who has casual ideas about clutter and the other is a resurrected-crook-turned-maybe-sort-of-vigilante who happens to be a neat freak. In other words, it's a bit weird for both of them, but they're making it work.

The call is a surprise to both.

"We've been invited where?"

"Sunday dinner. At the Steins'. " Sara weighs her phone in her hand, amusement on her face. " Jax too. I'm surprised she didn't mention Team Flash, but I guess this is a 'legends-only' occasion."

He stares at her.

"Len? Is that a 'no'? Because I'm going anyway; I'd sort of like to see them. And I'd really like to meet Clarissa."

"I ... ah," he says, carefully. "Um."

"I don't mind if you don't want to go."

And she doesn't, sincerely. They'll never be one of those couples that have to be attached at the hip; they naturally just tended to gravitate that way, even before the whole "couple" thing. But that doesn't mean she wouldn't like him to.

And he's no dummy. He knows that.

"I don't really know what to do at something like that," he says a little plaintively. "Wasn't really a thing in my ... family."

Of course it wasn't. "Go. Eat food you didn't have to cook. Ask Jax what he's thinking about studying at college. Tell stories about shit we did on the Waverider. Embarrass Stein."

A long sigh. "All right." A pause. He turns to study the apartment, and the little wine rack in the kitchen. "Maybe that Cabernet? The one you snitched from Rip? What?" He frowns a little at the look on her face. "You take something to stuff like this, right?"

Smiling, she bumps his shoulder with her own. "You'll do just fine."

* * *

This home, this comfortable white-collar existance, is as far from any portion of his life to date as time travel had been. Sara has to nudge him to continue walking up the sidewalk to the house, then catches his free hand in hers as she raps at the door.

He feels a little more comfortable when their old teammate answers the door. A little.

"Ah. Ms. Lance. Mr. Snart."

Sara gives Stein a big hug. The professor looks immensely gratified, then nods to Snart ... who pulls habit around himself like the shield it is.

"Stein," he drawls. "Nice place."

"Yes, well, welcome. Be it ever so humble. Come in!"

* * *

When Martin told her who he wanted to invite to their home for Sunday dinner, Clarissa Stein hadn't been precisely sure what to think.

She has, insomuch as it is possible to do so, made her peace with the fact that her husband is a superhero. That many of his friends and associates these days are also in that line of work. But a career criminal, one whose exploits she's read about in the papers and seen discussed on the news? She'd be lying if she said she wasn't a little ... hmm. Not precisely uncomfortable, but uncertain, so much so that Martin actually suggested she call the kids at S.T.A.R. Labs and verify that they'll vouch for Leonard Snart, that the man has truly turned over a new leaf.

"But I can tell you this myself," he told her earnestly. "He really is a hero. I saw evidence of this myself. He saved Jax's, and my own, life multiple times. And ..." Here, he hesitated. "Well, we thought he'd sacrificed himself, to be honest. Making it possible for us to carry on with our mission. It wound up being a little more complicated than that.

"But that is the man we'd be inviting, Clarissa. Not the criminal. And he's very much in love, if I'm not mistaken, with Ms. Lance, whom I'd also like you to meet."

Well. One does not break up a social unit. She acquiesced, wondering all the while what sort of a leopard she's invited into their home.

Whatever she's expected, though, it wasn't this tall man with the remarkable blue eyes and the profoundly uncomfortable look on his face. He's somewhat awkwardly juggling both a bottle of wine and a bouquet of sunflowers as the lovely young blonde woman by his side talks animatedly to Martin - and from his hunched shoulders and general demeanor, he finds this whole somewhat domesticated experience utterly foreign.

Unexpectedly, her heart goes out to him.

"Mr. Snart? Clarissa Stein." She makes eye contact as she approaches. _Such_ eyes. "Welcome to our home."

She's pleased by the gratitude she sees there for a heartbeat.

"Mrs. Stein." The words are clipped, but he holds out the flowers and the wine with a courtly little tip of his head. "Thank you for the invitation."

As she thanks him, their other guest hurtles out the door from the kitchen, where he'd been stirring the spaghetti sauce for her.

"Sara? Snart? Man, you really did come!" Jefferson Jackson, this young man she's come to admire so much in the relatively short time she's known him, is grinning from ear to ear at the newcomers. "I missed you guys!

The blond woman hugs him, too, then transfers her smile, and an outstretched hand, to Clarissa. "Sara Lance. I'm so pleased to finally meet you."

Clarissa shakes her hand. "Ah," she says to her husband, "the sexy assassin from the future!"

Martin winces. Sara's face is a sight. Jax howls in laughter. And this hardened criminal, the wanted man about whom she's had such trepidation ... he looks like Christmas has just come early. A smirk spreads slowly across his face.

"Oh?" he says inquisitively to Sara. "Do I want to know about this?

Laughing, she gives his arm a little shove and shakes her head at Martin. "Stein, did you have to? I'm never going to live this down."

"Well, it seemed like the right thing to do ..."

As they move into the house, telling the story falls to Jax, who does an embarrassingly fine job with it. Clarissa goes to the kitchen to put the flowers in some water; Sara follows her after a moment, a touch of a flush spreading across her face.

"Um, about that ..."

But the older woman is laughing silently. "My dear, I know. I really shouldn't have said it. But he was so very flustered telling me the original story, when he first got back, that I couldn't resist. I apologize for making you part of the joke."

"That's OK." She's silent a moment. "Your husband's a remarkable man. Truly."

"That, I also know." Clarissa studies the younger blonde for a few seconds. "He has many wonderful things to say about both of you, as well."

No missing that emphasis. The younger woman's chin comes up, just a fraction, before she relaxes again. Protective. The realization charms Clarissa.

Some things are universal.

"Martin says you're originally from Star City. Do you have any family here?"

* * *

While Sara is in the kitchen with Clarissa, Len finds himself casing the house. It's the sort of place he would have pegged as an excellent target in his much younger days. It's hard to turn old habits off; his eyes flick from antique to antique. At least the Steins have a decent security system, though he could probably make some recommendations.

He wonders how that would be received.

Jax has gone back to the kitchen; Clarissa, he has explained proudly, is entrusting him with her spaghetti sauce recipe. Stein has poured them both a finger of whiskey and raised his glass in a wordless toast; he follows suit, and drinks.

Yeah, he'd have broken in here for the booze alone.

The older man is eyeing him over the rim of his glass, but the look is more measuring than suspicious. "How are you adjusting?"

The question could mean many things: Adjusting to a partially doubled set of memories, adjusting to a life as one of the "good guys," adjusting to life with Sara. He weighs the options. Goes with the one he's surest of.

"Well enough. She leaves knives on the bedside table and I've cut myself at least twice. And she's sort of a …" A glance toward the kitchen. "… a slob. But we don't have to sneak into each other's rooms anymore, so there's that."

Stein starts to choke on his drink, catches himself, and shakes his head. But he's smiling.

"Ah. The joys and perils of domesticity."

* * *

Dinner – spaghetti with homemade sauce, crusty and fresh-baked Italian bread, and a salad stocked with vegetables from their garden - is excellent. The purloined Cabernet actually goes perfectly with the meal, which leads to active discussion of Rip Hunter's alcohol stash, its various items' relation to history, and how much Sara, Leonard, Mick – and, as it turns out, Stein, who proudly produces a very fine bottle of Burgundy – managed to lift before most of them left the ship.

Jax is still somewhat annoyed at missing out on most of this, but he's perfectly happy to talk about his long-put-off college plans, which now include studying mechanical engineering at Hudson University. He's good-naturedly squabbling with Stein about prerequisites and professors – and the requirements of what's being referred to fondly as the "Ronald Raymond Memorial Grant" - when Clarissa finds herself studying their other two guests across the table.

Sara is watching Jefferson and Martin, grinning; Leonard is watching Sara. Clarissa gets the impression, both from recent observation and comments Martin has made, that this is a longstanding occupation of his.

So many conversational gambits – what do you do for a living, tell me about your family - have pitfalls here.

"So, how did you two meet?" she says softly, trying not to draw attention away from the other discussion.

His eyes snap to her in surprise, then an actual smile reaches them.

"The ship," he says, simply, taking a sip of his wine. "Didn't know each other before that. Didn't run in the same … circles."

She leaves that one alone. "This whole thing seems to have thrown many different types of people together." A pause. "Martin thinks rather highly of both of you. He says you saved his life a few times."

That surprises him; she can see it. "There was a lot of that going around," he says finally. "Didn't keep count."

"Hmm. A card game in the Old West?"

That draws an actual chuckle. "He was cheating at poker."

The others have heard them.

"I was _not_!"

"Says the pot to the kettle," Sara tells Snart.

"You weren't even there," he retorts. "You were proving you could drink Mick under the table."

"Mick?" Clarissa asks politely.

"Yeah, you should definitely invite Mick the next time the ship's back here, Gray. And Ray, but he's not as much fun."

"I do not believe our fire insurance is up to that challenge."

"Now who's the pot and who's the kettle?!"

"He's all respectable now," Sara says with an air of disappointment. "He doesn't do that anymore. Not without good reason, anyway..."

Clarissa can't help it; she laughs right out loud at the banter.

Who would have thought that her staid and responsible husband, capable of negotiating academia with aplomb if not enjoyment, would finally seem so comfortable in a mixed group of heroes and – former – felons?

And who would have thought that she would, too?

* * *

Snart will admit it. He's found the entire experience to be a lot more enjoyable than he thought it would be – not that his expectations were very high.

Part of that is Sara, without whom this whole … thing … would be impossible, let along palatable. Part is that he has sincerely enjoyed seeing Jax and Stein again. And another part of that, he's pretty sure, can be credited to their hostess, who not only acquiesced to a pardoned criminal in her home, but actually welcomed him.

Kindness has never been much of a phenomenon in his life. Its presence is still something he's getting used to.

So while the others are discussing an incident for which he was not present (something about the Roaring '20s? It's probably just as well), he wanders diffidently into the kitchen, where Clarissa Stein has removed an apple pie from the refrigerator.

"Ice cream or no ice cream?" she asks him, seemingly unsurprised at his presence.

"Have to have ice cream with apple pie." He hesitates, then tilts his head toward the freezer in question, moving with alacrity to retrieve said ice cream when she nods.

That done, he hesitates again, a long moment. "Thank you."

She doesn't pretend it's for the ice cream. Another long moment passes.

"Well. You're welcome. I won't say I didn't have qualms. But admitting you might be wrong … whether it's about your life choices, about people, or about the world in general … is a life skill many people never learn. You and I both, Mr. Snart, appear to be learning it."

She pauses, then looks at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Perhaps, next time, we can invite Mr. Allen and his friends, too."

He groans. She smiles.

* * *

They stand together on the porch and watch their guests head back to their own lives, Sara waving from the back of the motorcycle as that pair roars off down the street.

There have been many surprises in her life over the past several years, Clarissa Stein thinks, but the remarkably good company of a former assassin and former crook may be among the most pleasant.

"So," she says with amusement. "You think there's a wedding in the offing there? Babies?"

He chuckles disbelievingly. She elbows him.

"They're in love. People in love sometimes do those things, you know."

For a moment, her husband, the man who becomes one half of a fiery superhero, who flew off on a time ship, who is smarter than approximately 96 percent of the general population, looks utterly dumbfounded by the very idea.

"You know, my dear," he says finally, putting his arm around her, "that is a very, _very_ scary proposition."

"Hmm. Well, you know, the only hope I have for surrogate grandchildren is from all these young people you 'work' with. I have a vested interest."

She laughs for a good five minutes straight at the look on his face.


End file.
